


Birthday Suits

by ladyknightanka



Category: Common Law
Genre: Birthday Presents, Fluff, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Mild Language, Pre-Slash, Season 1 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you embroider Travis's name on your new black panties? No? I did.” When Travis forgets Wes's birthday, he decides to make up for it by getting him something extra special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Suits

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/35064.html). Basically, I love this show. THANK YOU, USA NETWORK. 8D

-

Birthday Suits

-

They're two-thirds of the way done with their latest session when Dr. Ryan smiles and says, “Let's finish off with _what's in your pocket_ , if there are no objections?”

Her gaze lingers heavily on Wes, who slumps in his seat, fingers drumming on one knee, unaware of the attention. Travis notices, though, but before he can speak up, some of the other couples cheer and they're all made to stand up.

“Wes?” Dr. Ryan inquires.

Wes sighs and rummages through his pants. He extracts an unopened, pocket-sized packet of sanitized paper napkins. “My gun's in here, too, plus my badge and pager,” he says, but Dr. Ryan shakes her head.

“No need for all that.” She smiles at him, then directs the sunny beam to Travis.

“I've got, uh, lemme see–” Travis sticks his hands into his front and back pockets. He comes away with a half-finished roll of mints, his cell-phone, wallet, and a single condom.

“ _Travis_ ,” Wes hisses, ears red.

Travis grins cheekily and says, “Oops, meant to have that _in_ my wallet.”

Other patrons of the therapy session laugh. Dr. Ryan quirks her eyebrow at him. “I think that's quite enough. Shall we commence counter-clockwise?” she asks.

There's a murmur of agreement and they do. When the circle finally stops on her, last, she reaches into her designer purse and pulls out a white card with blotches of color on it that reads _Happy Birthday_ , which she holds out to Wes.

His cheeks darken again, and his blue eyes shift from side to side, as if he's casing the room for exits – except, he couldn't be doing that because he's _Wes_ , suspicious bastard extraordinaire, so he must already know every route in and out. In the end, he ducks his head low and accepts the card with a mumbled, “Thanks,” while everyone else stares.

“You, um, you know his birthday?” asks Travis, tearing his eyes away from Wes, who refuses to look away from his shoes like a chastised child.

Dr. Ryan grins and replies, “I know all your birthdays, Mr. Marks. I've read your files, remember?”

“Can we finish now? I have things to do,” Wes cuts in, arms crossed defensively. He clutches the birthday card in one white-knuckled fist, and it starts to crinkle, a blemish developing between an otherwise happy, smiley-faced balloon's nose and mouth.

Travis frowns at him. He doesn't have to be a criminal profiler to know that Wes feels uncomfortable, nor that the 'thing' in question is likely just watering his lawn. It's Wes's birthday, though, and Travis will be damned if he lets him spend it being his usual obsessive, angst-filled self.

He sidles to his left and cages an arm around Wes's shoulders. “Sure, bud, but how 'bout a song for the birthday boy first?”

“Travis,” Wes protests, mouth set into a grim line.

It's too late. Dr. Ryan nods her permission and round after round of _happy birthday to you_ and _for he's a jolly good fellow_ ring out. The session ends with all of their peers clapping Wes's shoulders and wishing him a great day. He flinches as if their words are bullets.

“Happy birthday, Wes,” Dr. Ryan says, smiling. For both their benefits, she adds, “Good day, boys. See you next time.”

“Yeah,” they both respond, with varying degrees of cheer. Travis attempts to lay his arm across Wes's back again, but gets shrugged off. Wes stalks out of the building briskly.

“Hey, don't be like that, man,” Travis calls after him. When Wes doesn't pause on his trek to his car, he jogs to catch up to him and slides into the passenger seat. For a few minutes, they drive quietly. Then, “I'm sorry I forgot your birthday.”

Wes shrugs. “Not like I remember yours. Or you do.”

“I celebrate the day I was found,” says Travis, pulling a face.

Wes's eyes flit to the rear-view in time to catch the expression, and he sighs. “Sorry.” Before therapy, he'd probably never apologize, but then, Travis wouldn't have, either.

As it is, it elicits a smile from Travis. “'S okay. Besides, not like the ladies of the precinct let you forget, anyway,” he says, and the smile transposes into a smirk.

“No, they really don't,” Wes replies, then curbs around a new street. He squints up at the sky. Travis wonders if the bright LA sunlight bothers him, or if he's getting a migraine just from recalling Travis's last birthday blowout, courtesy of Loretta from forensics and her party-planner twin sister. Wes pulls up in front of the station.

Travis gets out first and stretches, then turns back to Wes and asks, “So, what's the plan for today? You and Alex have dinner reservations somewhere snobby, huh? Calamari?”

“First of all,” Wes grits out, “I have a tropomyosin allergy. You _know_ that.” Travis grins because he does. The captain's pool party disaster of 2008 was pretty scary at the time, but long enough ago that Travis can visualize Wes's puffy pink face and laugh, to Wes's immense displeasure. “Second, Alex and I... I don't think we'll be spending birthdays together anymore. She's at her parents' new place, helping them move.”

“Oh,” Travis says, the quirk of his lips softening. He rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly and watches Wes scale the steps that lead into the precinct. “What are you gonna do, then?” he finally inquires.

Wes wheels around and scowls down the stairs at him, hands on his hips, the birthday card still bunched in one. “If you haven't noticed, Travis, unlike you, _I'm_ a big boy. I don't need cake and presents to feel validated. Now hurry up.”

He storms into the building before Travis can answer. Travis finds him at his desk, leafing valiantly through the case files of a job that had been completed a week ago. He doesn't glance away from them, despite Travis standing behind his chair and tapping a foot for a solid three minutes.

Travis eventually sighs and decides to let him be. For now.

-

After the work day ends, Wes asks Travis, “You need a ride?” He still won't meet Travis's eyes directly, but that he'd even offer is pretty telling, and Travis is tempted to take him up on it. It _is_ Wes's birthday, after all – except, that's exactly why he has to decline.

“Nah, man, got my bike out back,” he says. Wes nods once, curt, and shuffles out. Travis leans against a wall at his rear and observes him till he's gone, then leaves the station himself, with more amicable nods for his fellow detectives and officers.

Rather than bike home, however, Travis heads to a small shop in the business district with a colorful sign, its lettering pink and scripted; it reads _Lana's Luxury Lingerie_. He parks, pushes past the shop's glass door, and before the bells above can stop chiming, has an armful of curly red hair.

“Travis, it's you!” his foster sister, Lana, exclaims, face in his chest and arms wound around his waist.

Travis laughs and extricates their limbs to survey her. “Look at you, beautiful lady. What I wouldn't do to see that gorgeous face more often,” he says, which elicits a grin.

It soon declines into a pout, accompanied by an accusing glare. “You could see your fill of me if you'd actually visit or call.”

“I saw you a couple weeks ago,” Travis replies, his arms now aloft in a 'don't shoot' gesture.

Lana laughs and gets off the defensive. She's short in stature and round in face, but not as innocent as Travis had initially assumed, when he first met her in his sixth foster family. That's why he knows she can help him with what he needs, just as he knew Money could lend a hand with the Whitaker case.

“What can I do you for?” Lana inquires, tiny, even white teeth bared in a beam that reminds him of Wes's, though much more carefree; more like the Cheshire Cat than a guard dog about to rend a leg off him.

Travis scrutinizes her wares over her head till he finds a pile of neatly folded silk boxers. He steps around her over to them and picks a pair up with the thumb and forefingers of both hands. “Coudja maybe customize these for your favorite little bro?”

Lana claps her hands in delight. “Let me guess, you want 'Travis' on 'em?” Before he can ask how she knows, Lana's lips stretch wider till he's sure they must hurt, an absolute leer, and she continues, “You wouldn't believe how many people, men and women, come in requesting exactly that.” Travis has the decency to blush. No one wants their sister aware of sexual habits. He simply nods and holds the boxers out to her. She lopes toward a curtained-off back door and calls over her shoulder, “I'll be a few hours in my lab. Why don'tcha go grab something to eat?”

“Thanks, sis,” Travis says.

“Wear a condom,” he hears her shout, over the bells that signal his retreat.

-

Three hours later, the sky darkens above, winking stars to light his way. Travis knocks on Wes's hotel room door. A sliding rectangle swath of wood recedes enough for a blue eye to blink suspiciously at him.

“Travis,” Wes says, and Travis can just picture the little line that forms between his partner's fair eyebrows.

“Hey, birthday boy,” he replies, pressing two white boxes, one diminutive, the other long, into the small of his back, out of Wes's line of sight. “You gonna let me in?”

“I don't know if I should. Getting my doorman investigated would probably be wiser,” Wes says, but the panel of wood clicks shut and he unlocks the door.

Travis steps inside and appraises Wes's suite, Wes's _home_ for at least a year now. It's nice enough, Travis supposes – possibly even nicer than his own trailer, since the exorbitantly priced suite has a plush carpet, a king-sized bed, a balcony, a huge closet, and a bathroom the Queen of England wouldn't turn her nose up at.

Except, every time Travis sees it, in all its blue and charcoal-gray toned glory, every time he sees Wes's carefully organized closet, arranged by type of clothes, color and size, he can't help thinking how damn _lonely_ it all looks. The clutter in Travis's trailer shouts _you belong_ in a way Wes's possessions don't.

Wes stands at the foot of his bed, fingers clenched into the cottony material of his pajama top, almost tugging it up above his hips. Travis can imagine the sliver of pale skin there and he wonders if Wes realizes how much like an angry little boy he looks right now. Travis knows a thing or two about angry little boys, after so many foster families. It doesn't help that it's barely ten p.m. and Wes seems already raring for beddy-bye.

“Lookin' cute,” Travis tells him with a smirk.

Wes scrunches his nose and inquires, “Why are you here, Marks?” each syllable spat disdainfully.

Travis finally reveals the two boxes, the bigger one beneath the other, both as white as Wes's unsullied carpet. He didn't have time to wrap them. “Got you a present, partner.”

“Travis, I said–” Wes starts to snap, but catches himself, sighs, and squints down at the boxes. He reaches out and pokes the topmost one. “What is it?”

“Open them and find out,” urges Travis. “They're for you.”

“...Okay,” Wes agrees. Travis transfers the packages between the two of them. When Wes takes a seat on the bed and pops the first box's lid odd, he follows and gauges his reaction to the little cupcake inside, vanilla with chocolate icing. Wes traces the stem of the cherry on top. “Kind of like us,” he murmurs.

“That's why I picked it,” Travis answers, grinning from ear to ear.

Wes's mouth tugs at the corners, too, and the glare he levels on Travis looks more for the benefit of his pride than anything. “I'd be the icing, though. I'd be on top.”

“Yeah, okay.” Travis snorts, but flicks the remaining box with a finger before they can dissolve into menial bickering; that, they'll save for tomorrow, when it isn't Wes's birthday anymore. “Open your real present. You can worry about your figure later, princess.”

“Ha-ha,” Wes says, but sets the cupcake aside and obliges. His fingertips curl beneath the longer box-top as he slowly pulls it aside, then stares. Travis's smile grows huge as he watches, and he bursts out laughing when Wes, blushing red as the cherry, primly holds up the boxers by their elastic waistband. “Your name's on the back.”

“Uh huh.” Travis beams. Wes narrows his eyes at him, and his innocent mask falters. “Well, uh, you know how you were eaten with guilt for breaking me and Ellen up?” Wes crosses his arms, the boxers dangling over his elbow, stark against the white-with-blue-stripes of his pajamas. “I thought I'd give you these to ease your pain and have us both a good time, meanwhile.”

“I see...” Wes rubs his thumbs along the embroidered lettering of Travis's name, the same blue shade as his own eyes. Travis jerks his own gaze between Wes's hands and face.

The gift is, to be honest, partially in jest. Half the fun of hanging with Wes is watching him lose his grip on his impeccable control, his icy temper, if only a little bit – and usually more than that, to be honest. Partial, however, is far from _whole_ , and Travis knows there are other ways of letting loose – ways that involve Wes, in nothing but his new boxers, Travis's possession stamped across his ass, sprawled back on his too big bed, lonesome nevermore. Although, that's more a present for _Travis_ than it is Wes. Or maybe it's for them both.

“You like 'em?” he asks Wes. “I could trade them in for panties like Ellen's, if you'd prefer?”

Wes chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip for a second, before he shrugs. “Thanks,” is all he says, rather blasé of him, more plausibly because he doesn't want to get blood on his carpet than actual apathy.

“You're welcome.” Travis grins and hugs him by the shoulders again. A little breathy, he whispers in Wes's ear, “So, when are you gonna wear them? Will you show me soon, pretty please?”

Wes shoves him away, rises, and tosses the boxers on top of Travis's head. They land with perfect sharp-shooter precision. “I'm going to the bathroom,” he says, matter-of-fact instead of threatening. “Don't be here when I get out.”

“Aw, but Wes,” Travis whines, but there's no response, so he packs Wes's gift back into its box as precariously as he can, then removes the cupcake from its container, flips the smaller box over to sit on the larger one's lid, and stages Wes's birthday treat atop the cardboard structure. That way, Wes will find it once he gets out. Maybe he'll scrounge out a candle and make a wish, thinking of Travis. Maybe.

Travis is already on his bike, on his way back to his trailer, when his phone buzzes to alert him to new text messages. _Thanks_ , the first reads, then, _Maybe I'll wear them on your birthday. If I remember._

Travis beams at nothing in particular and shoots off a reply text. _You'll remember. ;-)_

-

And Then There Was Porn

-

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/35064.html). Hope you enjoyed. There may actually be a smutty sequel about Travis's birthday. ♥


End file.
